


Homesick

by djsoliloquy



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dancing, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-02
Updated: 2015-06-02
Packaged: 2018-04-02 14:24:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4063237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/djsoliloquy/pseuds/djsoliloquy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Judgmental glances, dangerous gleams of metal in shadowy corners, tipsy maidens slipping on blood spilt over the marble before serving elves can clean it up and the dancing may continue. That’s not to forget the insistent memory of Mother’s voice in Dorian’s ear, Father’s in the other. A lovely night, all told. Almost enough to make one homesick.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Homesick

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a kinkmeme prompt asking for the guys dancing at the ball. Thanks so much stas for being a wonderful beta ♥

_And here we are again_ , Dorian thinks when he has a moment to regard his immediate surroundings, namely the evidence of eccentric Orlesian horticulture. But it’s not the garden so much as it’s the end of another ball. In Dorian’s experience, balls have only three or so possible endings—surreptitious trysts, overindulgence, or death. Finding oneself in a state of breathtaking disgrace, at the very least.

Tonight they are victorious. The Inquisitor is off shaping empires and history books, commanding the attention of several nations, if not all of Thedas.

And in the tradition of things, Dorian is in the most secluded garden of the Winter Palace he could find, being violently, unhandsomely ill.

However familiar it is finding himself there, it does come as a surprise. He hadn’t been trying for this outcome at all. His sole comfort is how they fought through swarms of agents and assassins before he found himself seeking an escape from the festivities.

Catching sight of the Iron Bull round the corner and immediately making eye contact with him is somewhat _less_ comforting.

“Dorian!" Bull’s happy voice fills the garden. He makes his way through the arcade and around a bed of bone-white roses. “There you are, I've been looking everywhere.”

“Yes, I’ll be just a minute,” says Dorian, waving him away. “What happened? Some new calamity?”

“No, everything’s fine. Sera’s on bodyguard duty.” Bull comes closer anyway, shaking his head as he takes in the scene and sits beside Dorian on a bench. _Sits_. And _chuckles_ , as though Dorian is not being miserable over a no-longer-flowering shrub.

“Had a bit too much?” says Bull, not entirely disapproving.

Dorian musters the will not to vomit between words. It almost works. “No, I—” _for the love of_  “I’m perfectly—”  

Blood and flames and to the Void with _everything_.

“It was the blighted pheasant,” Dorian finally says, panting. “Should have known better than to—” he cups his mouth, biting back nausea, “—trust a sauce that changes color between courses.”

“Oh, those ones with the gravy?” says Bull. He gets a wistful look in his eye. “Yeah, I had about half of one. Nice flavor. Not too salty, just the right amount of sweet.”

The description is almost enough to undo him. “Why would you say that to me,” Dorian says in a rush, groaning.

To his credit, Bull quickly drops that line of thought. “I feel fine, though. Didn’t notice anyone heaving into the drapes on my way over, either.”

“Yes, well, you also apply toxic paint to your face on a regular basis, so I hardly think—”

The sentence ends, abruptly, with Dorian’s face bent over the poor bush.

At some point Bull takes to patting Dorian’s back, rubbing in a soothing way between his shoulder blades. “Easy,” Bull says. “That’s it. Better out than in.”

Sound of the band’s distant lilting return to Dorian in fragments. Bull hums along with the waltz, or perhaps it’s some gentle off-key tune that reminds Dorian more of Skyhold’s tavern than anything else. Of bards and cozy firelight and Ferelden beer. The Winter Palace feels cold in comparison to that, though how could that be?

“Can you not,” Dorian says. His voice is hoarse.

The touch along his spine is gone at once. Bull remains at Dorian’s side.

“Did you want some time alone with the hedge?” he teases.  

“This is hardly my...finest moment, Bull.” Dorian tries for diplomatic. _Stately_. As much as any man could be with his shoulders hunched and beginning to tremble from exertion, half-clinging to a garden sculpture as though it were Andraste herself sent to deliver him from traitorous digestive problems. “Surely there’s somewhere you would rather be.”

“Nah. You left before it got good. Cullen’s wrapping things up on his end. I think our Inquisitor is finally getting a dance.” The way he glances at the higher stories of the palace seems to imply it’s a dance that doesn’t have the lives of thousands hanging on it, for once. How nice.

Dorian takes a deep breath. He focuses on the night air, filled with the heavy, sickly scent of blossoms and torch ash and the sweat of hundreds of edgy, excited partygoers garbed in layers. Actually, perhaps focusing on that was not the best idea.

A silky white kerchief does appear in Dorian’s line of vision after the next wave of sickness, identical to the one included with Dorian’s own dress uniform. The one he expended some time ago.  

“Many thanks.” Dorian accepts the square of fabric, tiny in Bull’s hand, and dabs at his moustache. “Is that why you’re here?” he asks. “Looking for a dance, were you?”

Bull chuckles. “You up for one, Dorian? I could carry you back to a fainting couch, if you’d like.”

“I’d rather be publicly flayed,” Dorian says, delicately.

The teasing between them lacks real heat, like it had in the beginning. Now it’s this back-and-forth that feels more natural than asking _are you alright?_ A friendly volley, though Dorian isn’t feeling equal to any other couch activities, should Bull mention them. And Bull will almost undoubtedly mention them.

“Rich food doesn’t agree with me like it used to,” says Dorian instead. “Clearly I’ve been living out of a tent for too long.”

Bull turns almost completely around in order to level a disbelieving look at him. “Remind me, when exactly did you stop eating fancy meals?”

“That’s just Orlesian cuisine for you,” Dorian doesn’t answer. “Can’t call it a proper dish without bathing every plate in a cow’s worth of cream and butter.”

It’s just that—it _must_ be the food. Everything else is all too familiar. The antithesis of Skyhold’s rustic, intimate,frozen charm, and the wet, uncomfortable appeal of traversing half of Thedas under the Inquisition banner. Halamshiral is _normal_ compared to all that—a different flavor from Tevinter, though equally deadly. Judgmental glances, dangerous gleams of metal in shadowy corners, tipsy maidens slipping on blood spilt over the marble before serving elves can clean it up and the dancing may continue. That’s not to forget the insistent memory of Mother’s voice in Dorian’s ear, Father’s in the other. A lovely night, all told. Almost enough to make one homesick.

Almost.

It had most certainly been the pheasant.

The pheasant which Dorian’s body is not done being rid of. Sadly, there’s no way he can think of to ask for Bull’s hand back to its soothing presence along Dorian's spine As the familial memories are firm to remind him, there's nothing to gain by lowering oneself through begging.

“Please,” says Dorian, trying to keep his voice steady, “ _Please_ , Bull, could you—be so kind to—that, yes.” Bull is rubbing his back before he can finish his sentence. It's probably obvious how the muscles in Dorian's shoulders and waist uncoil. He swallows. “Thank you.”

“Let it out, big guy,” says Bull.

His hand is so warm. It heats Dorian through the thick uniform fabric with a comforting weight. 

Night insects have given way to the earliest morning birds chirping among the lanterns. Music still wafts from the windows, draping them in a serenade. A few wandering guests, in sets of two, stumble upon them and always leave, muffling their surprise. Through the worst of it, Bull never stops gently rubbing his back.

Then, finally, the worst is passed. Dorian pushes himself up until he’s sitting on the bench. Bull switches arms, stroking his shoulder in smaller, slower circles, warmly cupping the back of his neck before dropping the hand beside him.  

Dorian clears his throat. Without looking, he folds Bull’s kerchief and hands it back.

Bull makes a face. “Uh. Hey, why don’t you hold onto that? When we get back, I'll trade it for one of those _favors_ you keep leaving behind in my room.”

“I never—oh, fine.” Dorian sighs and pockets the little square of fabric.

“After that dance,” says Bull, like a promise owed.

“After a dance,” Dorian vows with matching gravitas.

He ponders the act of dancing at Skyhold. Would it be in the tavern? Bull’s room? Out on the frozen ramparts with a few soldiers looking on?

Behind them, inside the palace, the quiet roar of the crowds have thinned to a murmur. Occasional fits of tired laughter, faint strings of the band winding down. Something drained yet slightly wild inside Dorian releases him all at once. He takes a deep breath and stands, away from the bushes.

“No,” Dorian says. “No. The morning is young, isn’t it? We’re alive, celebration is in order, and I’m no longer about to die ingloriously in the next five minutes. Why not now?”

“Hmm.” Bull considers his outstretched hand. As though he isn’t going to say yes, the brute. “We did kill a lot of assassins, earlier...”

“Well, _I_ certainly did,” says Dorian. He takes another steadying breath; he’s well enough, for this. “The Iron Bull, may I have this dance?”

Bull takes his hand, and it takes another show of will for Dorian not to slump boneless in his arms and fall asleep, or at a minimum take Bull on the offer to carry him someplace soft and cushioned. But the music is lovely, and so is Bull. At dancing. Surprisingly graceful in his steps.

Dorian feels at ease letting him lead.  “Not such a terrible way to end an imperial ball,” he says, “though I can think of more dashing nights in my recent history.”

“More dashing than losing your dinner into a fancy tree?”

Dorian gives him a sharp look. “If that display is what does it for you, we need to have a chat.”

“Not that exactly.” Bull lifts his shoulders, raises Dorian’s hand in his own in a sort of shrug. “I don’t think either of us wants to see your dinner twice. But you’re gentler when you’re under the weather. I get to help you out a little.”

“The word you’re looking for is _exhausted_.”

“So many thank yous,” Bull says, not quite hiding his smile.

Dorian heaves a theatrically loud sigh and lets his head fall against Bull’s chest. That seems fine. It’s warm there, solid, in Bull’s arms, warding away the chill as the sky lightens. The birds chirp a soft chorus around them. Distantly, he recognizes the band’s song, the traditional final dance of the night.

“We should return soon.” The last time he felt this thankful for the Iron Bull’s presence involved two mad wyverns, a scattering of Venatori, and a sudden shower of demons. Chance of death fair to middling, and he was still not as glad to have him as right now.

Dorian doesn’t know when he closed his eyes. He doesn’t bother opening them. Neither does he make to leave.

Nor does Bull. There comes another of his shrugs, muscles shifting everywhere. 

“If you say so,” Bull says in a quiet tone. “Sera’s keeping watch until sun-up.”

“Ah, dear Sera. I don’t even want to imagine it. That girl set loose on the unsuspecting, sleep-deprived nobility.”  They go several seconds, turning in a slow circle, before Dorian admits, “Alright, I wouldn’t mind imagining it a little.”

Dorian _feels_ Bull’s laughter. “Makes two of us.”

Eventually the band stops playing.

They continue to dance until morning.


End file.
